


Contemplate the Stars

by LydiaFearing



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, I don't think, M/M, Mild Angst, Rating will change, Self-Esteem Issues, never been in a band in my life so this probably makes no sense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-26 19:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaFearing/pseuds/LydiaFearing
Summary: 'Will Graham is unsuitable. That much is obvious as soon as he enters the room.'A Hannigram rock band AU. Will auditions for Hannibal's band at Alana's insistence. Things start off rocky but Hannibal becomes more and more intrigued by his new recruit. Will they end up making beautiful music together?Based on art by Reapersun.Rating will change in later chapters.





	1. The Audition

**Author's Note:**

> I had wanted to have this drafted out entirely before posting anything but I keep putting off finishing it. Putting some up should put the pressure on me to write more.
> 
> If you don't follow reapersun_art on twitter or support them on Patreon, consider it. Some high quality Hannibal art and AU ideas that I always want to poach.

A young girl stands in the trees, smiling at him. A warm smile but not quite trusting. She takes a few steps backwards, deeper into the forest. She is everything and he can’t let her leave. As he strides to her, the world darkens and she seems to glow. She looks at him with as much love as fear. Her eyes look like a doe spotting a rifle. He realises the branches entwined in her hair are antlers. Her skin is a bright white now as he holds her head still and lifts his knife to her throat. It feels right.

The light of his cellphone breaks through the last tendrils of his dream. It takes a minute for him to understand why his hands are empty and clean of blood. Why he suddenly feels bereft. Will grits his teeth and checks the screen before answering.

“Will?”

“Alana.”

“Will, I tried calling you four times already. You were asleep, weren’t you?”

Will drapes an arm over his eyes and does his best to clear his throat.

“Yeah but don’t worry about it. I should be up already.”

“Yeah you really should be, that’s actually why I called. You have that audition today. That audition I got you. That audition that is supposed to be happening right now. And you’re not there.”

“Oh, shit.”

A few weeks ago, Alana had made it her mission to convince Will that it was in his best interest to try and join her friend’s band. They needed a front man after the last one went AWOL. Even Will could admit the last year of working as a session musician for Jack Crawford’s studio had started to take its toll on his love of music, his creativity and his general happiness. All the same, it still took her the best part of an hour and one sizeable bottle of whiskey to get Will on board. Her argument was helped along by Alana’s concern for his well-being being utterly sincere if misplaced. That and her sweet smile. It was hindered a little by how much more radiant that smile was when she talked about her old friend and how talented he is. This, of course, guaranteed the band was fantastic. Some punk band. Ground-breaking, influential and popular in the local scene. The whole thing stinks of potential humiliation but it had seemed easier in the end to just agree with her and endure the shit show. Too bad his reluctance had resulted in his forgetting about it entirely.

“I fucked up. I’ll do better with the next audition. Wouldn’t have worked out anyway, I couldn’t front a band I like never mind some punk band thirty years too late to be relevant.”

“Bullshit. You’re a great musician and you have an amazing voice, you perform music you fucking hate all the damn time. Believe it or not, people still listen to punk rock and Selva Oscura are more interesting than just punk. They already have a cult following. This is a chance for you to do something you care about, Will. I think you'll actually like their music. It's something to be passionate about while you work on your own music. With the amazing advantage of someone else dealing with the bookings and the fans and all the stuff you hate. I’m not letting you self-sabotage. Now get onboard, okay?”

Will sits up, shifting guiltily in his cluttered, dark little bedroom which contains plenty of solid evidence of self-sabotage.

“Okay, I’m - I’m on board.”

Alana sighs in relief.

“Look, I’ll tell Hannibal I gave you the wrong time and you’re on your way. Can you get there in an hour?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Alana.”

“You can apologise later by buying me a beer. Or five. For now, get your ass to that audition, okay? You’re fantastic, Will. You need to realise that and allow other people to notice it too, okay? I need to call Hannibal back. See you later.”

“Thanks.”

Will takes a moment to consider just how disappointed she is going to be with him when this inevitably goes bad. He knows his problem had a lot less to do with false modesty than Alana seems to think. Music matters to him and he knows he’s good at it. His problems have a lot more to do with his inability to deal well with… well, with most people. He reminds himself that a bit of awkward social interaction is better than losing Alana’s friendship. In this instance at least. If he’s lucky, the band will be quick and to the point in rejecting him.

Scrolling through his texts, Will reminds himself exactly where it is he needs to be. Of course it’s across town in some up and coming hipster neighbourhood. Not quite gentrified but on the way there. An hour will be plenty of time to get there on his bike if he leaves right now. The three dogs yelping impatiently from the other side of his bedroom door mean that isn’t really an option. Dogs to feed and get down to the park. No time for breakfast. No time for a shower.

He puts on the only clean t-shirt he can find, the jeans he’s been wearing for longer than he cares to think about and an old sweater of his dad’s. He drenches himself in deodorant and aftershave hoping it might disguise just how gross he is. How much can a punk band care about hygiene anyway?

While the dogs eat, Will brushes his teeth and digs outthe old coffee tin he has stashed at the back of a cupboard to get what little money he has stored away. He’ll need to buy more dog food later and ideally comfort himself with a few drinks when this is over. He leaves his apartment with his guitar strapped across his back, three leashes in his hands and a quiet acceptance that today is not going to be a good day.

 

 

 

Will Graham is unsuitable. That much is obvious as soon as he enters the room. He is unbearably scruffy. His hair is a riot of frizzy curls. He hasn’t bothered to shave or shower. He has clearly rushed to get to the audition, a few minutes later than the new time agreed, flushed and sweaty. The smell of fresh sweat, stale sweat and dog is at least less offensive than the reek of his cheap aftershave. His sweater is clearly second-hand, ill fitting, worn ragged and designed for a man twice his size. When he takes it off (before he even introduces himself, before he even looks at anyone), he reveals a sweat-stained polyester blend t-shirt with a fast food logo on it. His worn skinny jeans have splashes of mud up the back of each leg and the cheap wallet chain hanging from his belt looks likely to turn skin green if handled.

It will be difficult to find someone who already embodies the desired image of Selva Oscura. Hannibal prides himself on having a clear vision of what this band can be and he is not prepared to compromise that image. Developing someone into what is needed is to be expected but Will Graham is too far removed. He is unacceptable.

“Sorry. Had the wrong time.”

The apology is less than sincere. Graham throws his sweater to one side and barely glances at Hannibal before taking his guitar from its case.

“So I’ve been told. I have a hard time believing Alana was that careless but as she has told me the error was her own, we agreed to wait for you. My name is Hannibal Lecter.”

Graham doesn’t say anything, just gives a curt nod as his eyes skip about the room between band members. If Hannibal didn’t have impeccable control over himself, he might sigh. Instead he imagines grabbing Graham by his wild hair and smashing his head into the wall. Picturing the quick moment of terror in Graham’s blue eyes before impact centres him and he remains calm.

“I believe your name is Will Graham?”

“Yep.”

There is a touch of arrogance about Graham but it’s clear his rudeness is borne mostly from social anxiety. He is holding his guitar like a shield between himself and the rest of the room. No matter the cause, his lateness and rudeness make it irresistible for Hannibal to needle him.

“Not fond of eye contact are you?”

Without having to look at Chiyoh, Hannibal knows she does not approve of his pettiness. He would usually resist but the utter lack of respect from Graham is almost unbearable after a long morning of auditions with far more obsequious potential band members. The best had been Tobias, both prestigiously talented and ready to kill in order to work with Hannibal. The worst was Franklyn, a long-time fan who spent most of his audition on the verge of tears while asking Hannibal personal questions rather than demonstrating his nasal singing voice. That has been… tiring.

Graham doesn’t answer beyond a scowl which is directed at the frames of his own glasses. It makes Hannibal want to push even more. If nothing else, Hannibal could defend himself as testing the boy’s confidence. His stiff shoulders and clenched jaw made his discomfort far too clear. If he can’t hide it in front of three people, he certainly can't hide it onstage.

“How about we just get this over with?” says Graham, baring his teeth.

At least Bedelia seems amused. She sets a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder in sympathy. She too knows this is a waste of time but she doesn’t mind the opportunity for a diversion. She gives Graham a sympathetic smile.

“You don’t seem like you want to audition, Will. Why are you here?”

Graham’s eyes dart to her. Or rather, over her shoulder.

“You need a guitarist and a singer. I can play guitar and sing. Now, what do you want to hear?”

This is most definitely a waste of time. Unfortunately, Hannibal has promised Alana to give Graham a chance. Graham is, according to her, incredibly talented and an important friend. Although he has never known her judgment to be impaired by infatuation, it is the only explanation that comes to mind. He imagines it is the touch of vulnerability about Graham as much as his pretty face that has blinded her. It deeply disappoints him, he thought she had better taste.All the same, he always keeps his promises.

 

 

 

Will has assumed Selva Oscura would be made up of pretentious assholes from the name alone. Their rehearsal space confirms it pretty quickly. From the outside, it appeared to be a run down warehouse but inside is a gorgeous and ridiculous rehearsal space. The walls are exposed brickwork decorated with taxidermy and baroque artwork. The polished wood floor is nearly entirely covered in turkish rugs. There are plush leather armchairs and what looks to be a kitchen in the back dominated by stainless steel. There are huge arch windows, a goddamn chandelier and the nicest equipment Will has ever had the opportunity to see outside of a magazine. It looks to be as far removed from punk as he can imagine.

What is even more unexpected is that the three band members, pretentious or not, are all pristine, gorgeous and terrifying. The desperate cycle across the city after leaving the dogs with his landlady has left him feeling like a hot mess. This is just making things worse. He manages to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes at least. Will has a pretty solid idea of what they think of him without relying on empathy. 

Alana had spoken about the band enough for him to remember their unusual names. He assumes the blonde woman who is a few years older than him is Bedelia. Her silk, white dress and glossy black heels would make her look like a socialite or fashionable business woman except for the vibrant sleeve tattoos, her undercut and eyebrow piercing. From her cool smile, it is clear she finds him amusing and is happily waiting to see him fail. At least she is having a good time.

Chiyoh must be the young asian woman entirely in black except for her bright white doc martins and deep red nails. She seems to find the situation anything but amusing and is simply waiting for this all to be over with.

The man has to be Hannibal Lecter. Alana talked about him like he was a hero. He taught her guitar once upon a time. His hair is cut close at the sides with an artful sweep of hair at the top. He wears tight black jeans and a red shirt with a deep v-neck revealing trimmed chest hair. His clothes look simple with that hint of quality that means they were probably obscenely expensive. His arms, neck and chest show sweeping, colourful tattoos that are so richly coloured and detailed that they must have taken years to complete. He has snakebite piercings, two little spikes protruding from below his mouth. He is handsome, athletic and entirely self-assured to the point of arrogance. Will hates him immediately.

Other people’s emotions are often overwhelming for Will but all three of these people are self-contained, Hannibal most of all. His expression is polite, almost blank. He doesn’t say anything impolite or unreasonable. Although Will couldn’t dare look him in the eye to try and confirm it, he would put money on Hannibal being exceptionally angry. 

It is obvious enough already that Will isn’t going to fit in with these people but then when did he ever fit in? Alana had asked this of him and he’ll do it. He never promised to succeed. Setting up his guitar with the equipment left out for him without invitation, Will does his best to ignore the overwhelming expectation of failure from everyone in the room.

“No requests?” Will asked, daring to look briefly to each of their faces.

Lecter looks to Bedelia and she shrugs elegantly.

“Dealer’s choice,” she says.

May as well give him enough rope to hang himself. Will decides that’s fucking fine then. They have their mind made up and he may as well have some fun before they laugh him out of here.


	2. Wolf Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will just wants to drown his sorrows after a losing his temper at his audition. Things are never that simple.

“Will.”

He hates it when Alana sounds disappointed in him. For the best part of the afternoon, he has been holed up in the darkest corner of his favourite bar, Wolf Trap. He had warned the bar staff of his need to bribe Alana once she showed and Molly is kind enough to oblige by bringing over two bottles of Alana’s favourite craft beer. Will hopes it softens the blow. No doubt she has already heard of his inevitable failure for being an unprofessional asshole. He just hopes she can find the humour in it after a few drinks.

“So your audition piece is Ariana Grande? Really? You couldn’t have picked any other song.”

Great. Lecter gave her the details. Will had vaguely hoped the other man would be too angry to go into it but then Lecter didn’t seem like one to miss an opportunity to tear someone apart.

Will points his own beer at Alana.

“I actually played two songs.”

“And were they both Ariana Grande?”

“No. The other one was Britney.”

Alana takes a handful of peanuts and throws them at him. She then remembers herself and sweeps them up off the table before Molly notices the mess.

“I thought we had that talk about self-sabotage? And how it is bad, Will. Bad. As in not good for you.”

Will thinks of arguing but Alana worries so damn much about him. He's not sure he is worth that concern.

“I’m sorry I let you down. I lost my temper with the whole situation but come on, Alana. We all knew it was a no before I even opened my mouth. I don’t know how you’re friends with that-”

“Hannibal! Over here,” Alana calls across the bar with a wave.

“Great.”

Will sinks back into his seat. When Will had left the hipster warehouse, Bedelia informed him they had a few more people to see and they’d be in touch later. He had optimistically assumed that was a lie and they had no intention of ever contacting him again. Now he was going to have the joy of being rejected face to face. With Alana as a witness.

Lecter, typical European, greets Alana with a kiss to each cheek. Will rolls his eyes and drains the last of his beer. Alana is blushing a little and it is obvious she’s more than fond of him. Will gets to his feet.

“Excuse me, I think I need a whiskey.”

“A moment, Will.”

Lecter waves a hand asking for everyone to sit down again so Will drops down with a huff and adjusts his glasses. Lecter pulls up a tiny stool to their table and manages to sit with such poker-straight dignity that Will is tempted to laugh at him. Or that may be the beer’s influence. 

“I wanted to ask you about joining us for rehearsals.”

“Funny.”

“Although I can see how you’d find it amusing, I am being quite serious.”

Will frowns and looks to Alana, meeting her eyes briefly to gauge what is happening. She is delighted. She had known this was coming and has pre-emptively moved her apology beers away from Will in case he’s tempted to snatch them back off her. He considers lunging for them anyway. She’d find it funny. He doubts Lecter would. He doesn’t feel like letting his guard down in front of him. Will turns back to Lecter, focusing on one of the plastic spikes sitting out from under his mouth.

“Are you saying I’m in the band? Are you shitting me?”

Hannibal grimaces at the phrasing. Will can’t help smiling at what a prim little punk he is. He files that grimace away for future reference. It seems vitally important that he knows how to make the man as uncomfortable as he makes Will feel.

“No, I am not. We need a guitarist and vocalist. You were the best we met with today. Although, I will be honest with you, Will. I don’t feel you fit the band.”

“No arguments here.” 

“Good. It’s best we don’t have any misconceptions. I have a particular vision for Selva Oscura that varies greatly from your own image and this offer is purely on a temporary basis.”

The stress of getting to and getting through the audition combined with drinking on an empty stomach has left Will’s patience worn thin. He knows he should bite his tongue and be polite, for Alana’s sake at least, but it’s so tempting to say something to get a reaction from Hannibal. Ruffle some feathers. He really shouldn’t.

He takes a calming, deep breath before asking, “So what are you offering me exactly?”

“What I’m offering is a trial period. Join us for our rehearsals for the next three weeks and then a few small gigs we have booked to test the dynamic. We would need you to be committed for at least two months and to all performances within that period. We can review how to move forward after that.”

“You don’t like me,” Will says.

Alana throws some more peanuts at him.

“Hannibal, I’m sorry. Will, please don’t just throw away a good opportunity.”

“I’m not throwing away anything, Alana,” Will says, sweeping nuts from his shoulder. “I just want to know why me. Lecter, you must have met with other people you don’t actively dislike who can help you out for two months. Why torture yourself by letting me ruin your precious aesthetic?”

Lecter smiles, just barely. It’s a sharp, cold thing.

“It isn’t entirely my choice. My band mates have insisted we need someone immediately and we agreed you were the most talented person we auditioned. Even I can admit that you are talented even if you are _intentionally_ challenging. And Alana has assured me you have a great talent beyond pop covers.”

Will gives Alana a mock bow. She gives him the finger and sniggers at Lecter’s look of disapproval aimed at the two of them.

“So you have a couple of gigs you’re desperate to keep and I’m the best of your bad options. Fair enough. These gigs pay?”

Molly appears with a glass of red wine for Lecter who receives it with a gracious little nod and a note tucked into her hand. Will had not been aware they even had wine. He also didn’t notice Lecter order. He suddenly realises he is deeply tired and maybe a little closer to drunk than he thought. When Molly asks if anyone else needs anything else, he says no and does his best to give her a warm smile. He can’t be sure how successful it is. Molly is too kind to comment either way.

“Of course, you’ll have an equal share in all our earnings.”

Lecter take a deep inhale from his wine glass as he swirls the dark, red liquid. Will remembers blood right under the skin of a glowing white girl. It poured out, the colour of bruised cherries, of old rose petals, of love.

Lecter takes a delicate sip and says, “I’d be happy to compensate you for the short notice as well as a set payment per rehearsal if necessary.”

Alana’s sweet smile makes it clear she thinks this is kind. Lecter’s dry little non-smile makes it clear he knows just how uncomfortable this generous offer will make Will. It smacks of charity and Will is decidedly, visibly poor. Fucking sadist.

“No need. I’ll take my equal share when we get paid. When’s the first rehearsal?”

Will picks at the label on his empty beer bottle and imagines throwing it in Lecter’s face. How hard would it need to be for the glass to break? What angle to make shards imbed themselves in flesh?

“Tomorrow afternoon, four o’clock.”

“I’m working until five.”

“Where?”

As though it is any of his business. He pushes the bottle away from himself to avoid temptation.

“Boatyard.”

“That can’t be too far from our rehearsal space. We’ll see you at six. I ask that you keep to the agreed time and make more of an effort with your appearance.”

“Excuse me? I’m sure as shit not dressing up like you if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Will.”

“Alana,” Will shot back. The heat and noise of the bar was starting to feel overwhelming as the conversation was making him itch with the need to leave.

Lecter turns to her, conciliatory and calm.

“It’s alright, Alana. I should have made my request with more delicacy. Will, I would prefer you attempt to fit the aesthetic of the band when we perform. I certainly can’t force you and it would be unreasonable to make such demands for private rehearsals as you clearly are not comfortable with the idea. As a mark of respect for myself and the rest of the band, I would appreciate it if you at least wear something relatively clean when you meet with us. Perhaps you could even shower.”

“Hannibal.” Alana swats his arm gently, visibly confused that she has reason to tell him off. It is expected with Will but she clearly thought her old friend was more mature. Lecter raises his eyebrows and takes a drink which somehow gives the impression of an apologetic shrug without actually being one. Will bares his teeth and then does his best to turn it into a smile. For Alana’s sake, he chokes back a dozen replies that spring to mind.

“I think I can manage that.”

Will’s temper is almost entirely worn out, his hands are trembling and he just wants to sleep in a pile of dogs. He gets up and grabs his guitar case from behind his chair.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Talk to you later, Alana.”

She stands to block his way and grabs the sleeve of his sweater before he can slip past her.

“Will, you should stay. We just got here. Have that whiskey. Talk to us. No more shop talk. Update me on the dogs.”

Bending Alana’s ear about his dogs and relaxing with a few drinks had been exactly what he had hoped for tonight. Maybe some light flirting. The appeal is gone now, not helped by Lecter very pointedly ignoring Alana’s plea for Will to stay.

“Thanks but no thanks. Maybe I’ll buy a celebratory bottle on the way home.”

Alana forces a quick hug on him.

“Go if you’re sure but don’t drink alone. Text me tomorrow, okay? I like to know you and the dogs are alive.”

Will takes a moment to recover from the unexpected embrace.

“Sure. G’night.”

He heads to the bar to pay his bill but Molly says it’s already taken care of.

“Your European buddy settled it. Is he Alana’s boyfriend or something?”

“What? Why would you-”

Will glances quickly over his shoulder. They’re sitting kind of close but Alana would have said something by now if they were actually dating. Will turns back to Molly as she gently tugs one of his curls.

“Hey there. Sorry, I didn’t meant to freak you out. I just assumed because you look kind of down. And like you want to punch that guy.”

“Uh, I don’t know what’s going on with them. Something, I think. I want to punch him because I’ve just joined his band.”

“Okay, I’ll need you to unpack that for me sometime. Maybe some day when I’m not working.”

“Shit, right. You’re working. I’ll get out of your hair. See you, Molly.”

He slips out of the bar as quickly as he can, not noticing the long sigh from Molly. He unlocks his bike from a nearby fence and chews his lip, wondering what the hell he’s doing. It is earlier than he had planned on heading home so the roads are still busy and he’s a little worse for wear. He decides to walk his bike home rather than risk an accident. It’s then he notices a beautiful Ducati motorcycle. His gut immediately tells him it belongs to Lecter. The trouble with a powerful imagination, the image hits him full force before he can stop it. Alana getting a ride home later tonight, cold air, moonlight. Her arms wrapped tight around Lecter. Wearing his helmet. Going home with him.

Will decides he will definitely be buying whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is too much dialogue, it is the bit I enjoy writing the most. 
> 
> Like canon Alana/Will, their relationship in this fic will never actually be romantic so sorry to anyone that would want that and don't worry to those who really, really don't.


	3. First Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sulking like a little boy, his curls hiding his downcast face more and more. Hannibal can’t help imagining taking a fistful of that hair and forcing Will to look up at him. The arch it would make of his throat."
> 
> Will shows up on time and a tense rehearsal happens around dinner with the band.

Will Graham arrives at his first rehearsal ten minutes early. He smells of synthetic fruit from a cheap brand of shower gel. Underneath that is a hint of motor oil. He, thankfully, has not bothered to wear his terrible aftershave. Admittedly his clothes aren’t much improved; a blue plaid shirt and torn up baggy jeans. It must be what he wore to his work. Both have old, irremovable grease stains and more recent patches of dust from his sitting on a dirty floor. Both also have dog fur clinging to them. Hannibal assumes there is fur on all his belongings. Alana had mentioned his three dogs. It is likely some could even be found in his still damp hair.

Hannibal does not acknowledge his entrance nor does he pause in his playing the theremin. Bedelia and Chiyoh follow his lead and continue improvising along, ignoring the interruption until they reach a natural conclusion. By then, Graham has settled himself cross-legged on the floor. His arms drape over the scrappy electric guitar in his lap, his chin resting on his arms. He looks tired. He is a pale young man which makes the bags under his eyes look all the more pronounced and under his ill-fitting clothes, he is clearly somewhat malnourished.

“Have you eaten, Mr Graham?”

“Will. Please. Just Will. And no, not yet.”

“Your concentration will lapse if you’re hungry. I think it best we break for something now before beginning in earnest. After all, hunger is a distraction. Do you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“I’m not hungry, I’m fine.”

Will shuffles where he sits. Like many people raised in poverty, he bristles at the idea of charity or debt. On any other occasion, pushing his discomfort would be amusing. There is an enjoyable fierceness to Will Graham when angry as Hannibal discovered last night. His anxiety falls away, he looks one step away from vicious. But food is too important. Hannibal has know what it is to be hungry and no matter how rude anyone is at Hannibal’s table, they don’t go hungry.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, Will. We will all be sharing a meal together. I insist on it regularly as a form of payment for everyone’s time and since cooking is a passion of mine, it is no great effort. Now, do you have any allergies or restrictions I should know about?”

“Um, no. No. So long as nothing is still alive, I’ll eat it.”

A challenge for the future. It will be irresistible to test just how true that is.

“Wonderful. Chiyoh, if you’d assist me? Will, I’d like you to practice scales in the mean time.”

“Excuse me?”

“Scales. From your performance yesterday, it was clear you have a good intuition and memory for music but lack formal training. We will demand a certain precision from you that you will need to build toward.”

Will scowls. It may be too tempting to avoid riling him. Anger truly suits him. His blue eyes seem all the brighter, largely because they actually meet Hannibal’s own.

“You’re a punk band. What happened to the do it yourself ethos? If you can’t play well, play louder?”

It is quite irritating to realise Will has not bothered to listen to any of their music.

“Selva Oscura has been dubbed a punk band by a few publications based on aspects of our appearance and the high energy of the music we’ve produced so far. There is also an element of anti-authoritarianism to my lyrics but I’d argue it relates less to the mentality of punk and more to the self-indulgence of aestheticism. I have no intention of allowing our creativity to be boxed in by the limited understanding of a few lazy journalists and misguided fans. I trust when you have gained some familiarity with our sound, you’ll agree.”

Will has the grace to look disconcerted. He hasn’t bothered with the most basic of research. The unfortunate side effect is that he breaks their eye contact to look at the floor. Hannibal finds it more disappointing than he should.

“So you guys don’t like to be put in a box. The theremin being here kind of implied that. So that means you’re going to teach me classical guitar?”

“No. You would need an entirely different… instrument.” Hannibal placed some doubt on the last word. Will’s guitar looks to be a Fender Stratocaster that has lived an especially hard life. The body is misshapen with a rough paint job. There is electrical tape keeping an old sticker on that says only ‘Winston’ in sharpie. Hannibal assumes it is there to hide even worse damage. If this arrangement is to last long enough for Will to perform on stage with the band, something will have to be done about that guitar. It is, Hannibal decides, a battle for another day as Will’s defences are already up. It also may never come to allowing him to perform in public.

“If Bedelia could be so kind, she will help you along with your practice for now. You will also practice them in your own time in future. When you have learnt our songs, you will also need to practice the appropriate chord progressions and learn lyrics, of course. It would not be practical to dedicate time to it in future rehearsals when we should be working on the band’s overall sound and cohesion.”

“You’re giving me homework.”

Sulking like a little boy, his curls hiding his downcast face more and more. Hannibal can’t help imagining taking a fistful of that hair and forcing Will to look up at him. The arch it would make of his throat.

“I’m asking that you be at your best. However, I will ask that you do no voice work without my presence and take my guidance on how to look after your throat. I would not want you straining yourself or developing in a way at odds with what the songs demand.”

“You don’t trust me not to ruin my own larynx?”

“I don’t know you yet, Will. One can hardly trust another person without knowledge of them. What I do know of you so far is that you are stubborn and from your drinking, you don’t seem inclined toward to preservation of your own well-being.”

Will looks downright angry but remains silent, shoulders pulled up around his ears. Bedelia blinks at Hannibal, silently asking if he is quite done.

“Now, dinner will not take long.”

Hannibal moves to the small kitchen with Chiyoh keeping close. As he hands her the components for the salad from the fridge, she says quietly, “You must enjoy him. Or you at least find him interesting. You wouldn’t try to push him for a reaction otherwise.”

“You and Bedelia made your preferences clear.”

If Hannibal has decided alone, he would have chosen Tobias. He demonstrated great technical ability in his audition though he lacked emotional depth. It would be a compromise but one Hannibal was willing to live with. What he needed for a front man was a vessel who could convey his vision to an audience without colouring it with his own. That had been the problem with Abel. He had begun to delude himself that their success and their direction were down to him. He considered Hannibal’s songs his own and that had to be dealt with. Tobias would have been a similar problem eventually as he clearly had the ambition to surpass Hannibal some day. Ultimately it came down to Chiyoh and Bedelia stressing that they were uncomfortable around him. Will Graham may be abrasive but Tobias was falsely genial in a way that was much more threatening. He also clearly implied that he was as talented as Hannibal and far superior to the two women in that band. That was unbearably rude.

As Hannibal and Chiyoh work silently together in the easy rhythm of family, she chooses not to point out that although she and Bedelia influenced the final decision to be in favour of Will, Hannibal has not bothered to deny that he finds him interesting.

 

 

Lecter makes his way to the kitchenette with Chiyoh close behind him. Will looks to Bedelia who tilts her head as if to say her role as supervisor was news to her too but there is no point in arguing.

“Great,” Will says under his breath.

He stands, throwing his guitar strap over his shoulder and strumming a few chords.

“I would suggest tuning before we begin.”

Will flinches. Bedelia has a point but he wouldn’t need to yet for an actual punk band. Would be close enough for most bands. It is starting to become clear that this is going to be something Will has to dedicate a lot more effort to than he had originally planned. Hopefully the songs are interesting enough that it doesn’t become insufferable. When he is deemed good enough to learn them.

As Will tunes his guitar, he admits to himself he really should have listened to some of their music already. He has made it obvious he knows nothing about the band’s sound by repeating back the shallow assessments made by people like his old nemesis, Freddie Lounds. Will usually knows better than to listen to journalists like her. Alana had given him recordings of two of Selva Oscura’s gigs and their EP and Will had quickly abandoned them to the chaos of his one bedroom apartment. That was before she convinced him to audition. He’ll have to make an effort to find and listen to them now. At the very least, it would be interesting to hear their previous singer.

Bedelia is even more intimidating than she seemed yesterday. She sits in a leather armchair demonstrating the scales she wants him to start with on a beautiful acoustic guitar, all dark wood and pale scrollwork across the fretboard. Her shoulders are relaxed and her chin is tilted up as she looks at him. The cream silk blouse she wears is loose enough at the collar to show the edges of a tattoo that curls over her shoulder. Green leaves, light purple flowers and shiny black berries. Atropa belladonna. Deadly nightshade. It should be tacky but the botanical detail and Bedelia’s cold dignity makes it into just another layer of beauty and invulnerability. He does his best to copy the movement of her hands, thankful for his good memory.

“I’m curious, Will. You never did explain why you auditioned for us. You clearly didn’t want to.”

He resists the temptation to tell her to mind her own damn business while he concentrates on this stupid task. He knows it won’t stop her curiosity. If he is going to be on anything close to a level playing field with these people, he needs to start acting like a professional.

“Alana Bloom suggested it. I’ve been working for Jack Crawford. Different genre every couple of days, different quality of music too. I was… getting lost in it. I was finding it hard to write anything of my own when I had to jump between sounds.”

“So you write. And you think you would be less influenced if you were concentrating on one sound. Isn’t there a risk you’ll become fixed reproducing copies of Hannibal’s music? You’ll be spending a lot of time playing it.”

Will worries about the same thing but he has no intention of admitting that here and now. He deflects.

“Hannibal’s music? Not yours? Not Chiyoh’s?”

Bedelia allows the change of topic with a small tilt of the head. Will realises her restraint is very like Hannibal. Perhaps one of them adopted it from the other. Perhaps they’re a couple. Wishful thinking. Alana wouldn’t smile at Hannibal the way she does if that were true.

“Neither Chiyoh nor I are under the delusion that this band is anything other than Hannibal’s project. He allows us only as much input as he wants and even then, I’m nearly certain we’ve been manipulated into providing exactly what he had planned. He’s been building to this sound for years. If you intend to write songs of your own, my advice would be to keep them out of his way. For your sake and his. You’re getting sloppy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Will replies, going back over the last few notes with more focus.

Time passes surprisingly quickly and Hannibal comes back to them.

“If you’ll both join us, dinner is served.”

There’s a goddamn dining table because of course a rehearsal space needs one. Chiyoh indicates that Will sit next to Bedelia while she faces them, leaving a place at the head. Lecter serves them himself and then fills Bedelia and Chiyoh’s glasses with red wine. He looms over Will’s shoulder with the bottle in hand.

“Will you take a glass of wine, Will?”

“I better not, can’t afford my fingering to get any sloppier.”

Lecter sits and fills his own glass with a flourish, one hand holding the bottle. Not one drop goes astray.

“Have you had poor feedback regarding sloppy fingering before? I has assumed you could handle your alcohol from the amount you imbibe. I will have to warn that young lady at the bar you’d be better use to her sober.”

Lecter takes a sip of wine with a smug little grin. Neither Chiyoh nor Bedelia seem to breathe. Will stares. It takes a moment to realise he is making reference to Molly and then a moment more to parse whether he is shocked or outraged. He probably should be but the tension in him breaks in a great loud laugh.

“You’re some kind of asshole, Lecter.”

“Now, now boys,” Bedelia intervenes. Her hand grasps Will firmly on the shoulder. “This looks wonderful, what are we having?”

She seems genuinely concerned that this will escalate but Lecter looked to be enjoying himself. Either way, he looks downright enthusiastic about the chance to talk about food.

“Seared duck breast in a blood orange and star anise sauce with a bittersweet salad of red chicory, bull’s blood chard, fresh blood orange, pomegranate, ricotta and pine nuts.”

Will looks at his plate. The presentation is precise. Artful. Red.

Will thinks of blood pumping out between fingers, tight against a girl’s cut throat. He thinks of the sticky pull of the blood pooling underneath her, soaking into her clothing and hair.

“It looks… violent.”

“Like all art, it is open to interpretation. Vibrant colours, fresh citrus, rich in protein and vitamins. Are you inclined to violent thoughts, Will?”

He can hear her trying to breathe. Wet, gulping, struggling breaths. He doesn’t have time to honour her. He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle of water and pours himself a glass.

“You used the word blood three times and it wasn’t even in reference to the very rare duck, I don’t think I need to be Jeffrey Dahmer to make an association here.”

Will takes a couple of deep gulps of water before he spears a piece of duck and blood orange on his fork with more force than necessary.

“Were you wanting to express something violent?” he asks, before shoving his forkful into his mouth.

Lecter takes a neat little bite from his plate, he chews, swallows and he smiles again.

“Eat your dinner, Will.”

 

 

After feeding and walking the dogs, Will digs around through piles of clothes, books and old newspapers for the CDs Alana burned for him. Her clear, curly writing on the discs reminds him to text her as he sticks one of the live recordings into his dad’s old stereo.

He lies down on his bed and texts her, “Hey, me and the dogs are still alive and your buddy hasn’t gutted me yet for ruining his band.”

He drops his phone on the bedside table and closes his eyes to make himself listen to the music properly. Fast-paced but complex. Rolling guitar, sinister bass lines, snare heavy drums. More post-punk than punk. Experimental. Aggressive but in control, passionate but self-contained. The lyrics are obtuse, beautiful and painfully pretentious. A lot of them are in Italian. Some in French and some in Japanese. The singer sounds so sure of himself. Smug. He has a good voice for it and he sounds absolutely nothing like Will. Will tries to imagine himself singing that way and frowns.

He keeps his eyes closed until he heard the final cheers of the crowd and the CD stops. It might not be his style but he can admit to himself that the music is absorbing. It’s different and not just a little fascinating. There’s a darkness to it, some thread of violence that appeals. Will stretches out to check the time on his phone and sees Alana’s reply.

“If you have ruined it, that gutting is only a matter of time. Seriously though, feel free to call me and you can tell me about your first day.”

She sent it an hour ago. It’s late now and calling is a bad idea. He’s tired and liable to say something stupid. Will realises it isn’t just that holding him back. She sounds like a parent asking about their kids first day of college. He is going to have to accept that she sees him as the friend who needs fixing and not boyfriend material. That might be easier to do if he doesn’t rely on her quite so much. Maybe talk to other people. And deep down, he doesn’t trust her to be on his side if he complains about her old friend. She smiles at Lecter in a way she never smiles at him. He doesn’t reply, puts on the next CD and pours himself a glass of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend the fact that this is nothing like an actual band is down to Hannibal being weird and not at all because I know nothing about how bands work.


End file.
